“I don’t know you anymore.” That’s what he told her.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she said. Her latte was getting cold. Irrelevant. She wanted a shot anyway. Something that would burn going down—something that would counteract the fact that he was still breathing.
She was lying on the couch when it struck her . . . staring at the terra cotta pots, which were mottled, their bottoms turning dark, standing out against salmon-shaded soapstone towers and bowls that served as her only concession to frivolous decoration. The color combinations made her think of Mexico—a casita in Chuburna done up in burnt orange and lemon yellow. Plus, Mexico always made her think of doors.
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Potica prayed to God all the time now. She thought that her name alone should have been reason enough. People never got it right—Paw teet zah, not Po teek ah. Her mother said it was Slovenian. They were not Slovenian—they were Anglo-Saxon, as in White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She assumed, therefore, that the name had some special significance. When she asked, her mother simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s a kind of sweet bread. Your father liked it.”
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If I renounce all worldly possessions and go live in the mountains with a goat, two chickens, and a two-year supply of canned adzuki beans and Jasmine rice, will my attitude become more moderate? Reasonable. Temperate. Abstemious. My days could be spent making tools from stones. I’d hike down into the valley and harvest ash for splints and sweetgrass for weaving baskets. I would not speak, unless it’s to answer the wind. All of my hermit wisdom would be channeled into the goat and chicken, who will then give milk and honey mixed, or lay golden eggs.
I’m probably going to disappoint you. Yes, at some point, it’s true. We’ll be going along just fine and then, out of the blue, I’m not going to satisfy some request. I’m going to behave in a way you’d rather I didn’t. I’m going to say something that hurts your feelings, or keeps you from getting what you want from me.
I have all of this:
the soft, butter-yellow light
of my regard;
the brown tips of my fingers
brushing against skin; and
the careful press of my palm
to the body of this, most beloved
of manifestations.
The coffee table was littered with
the refuse of youth:
a small bowl of finger nail polish,
mostly shades of purple and fuchsia;
twists of tissue displaying the old remains
of color once daintily laid in thick layers to
brighten the tips of toes—a bottle of
remover, lying on its side, on the
green and brown rug.
A tall can of beer, something suddenly
popular [...]
Love is very quiet, today,
like a fallen blossom nestled in
blades of grass—
not even the wind can touch it.
Tomorrow, it is blustering,
the leaves of trees in a gale;
shifting, back and forth,
shaking furious fingers in
every direction.
It is stone, one moment—
unmoving, chiseled away day by day,
indifferent to the relentless waves
but then, the next, it is
ice melting. It is [...]
The lights glowed, small, pinpoints
like the tiny globes of fireflies or sprites
frozen in ice—they lined the fence, same
wood lattice that spread across the back
patio where we used to sit. (They would drink
beer and I would sip my tea, and roll my eyes,
and wonder if I might be better off
somewhere else, or maybe I would eventually
dissipate, [...]
I am filled with sorrow… I am
a weighted creature, sinking deeper
beneath dark waters.
There is only the barest hint
of a hand reaching out, or of the dream I had,
where I leaned back, into you, and you were
warm, and we belonged one to the other.
What day is to come? What now, beyond
this moment,
where I will try to [...]
She slips out
into the night,
black sky, made omnipotent by
the high-rise gait of the
six-inch stiletto slicing down
from the heels of her red boots.
“There is another life
beneath the one you see here,”
she says, smiling, and then she
hands the bartender a tip.
She hasn’t bought a drink in
three months. Since the weather was
warm enough for short
skirts and these
high-rise boots, [...]
